


Don't Look Back

by DonnesCafe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A bit sad, Friendship, Light Angst, Love, M/M, Post-Season/Series 04, Season/Series 04, Unrequited Love, and/or a bit hopeful depending on how you read it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-20
Updated: 2017-03-20
Packaged: 2018-10-08 13:22:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10387569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DonnesCafe/pseuds/DonnesCafe
Summary: Molly and Sherlock try to be good to each other. She also tries to be good to herself. Just for the record, I think Molly is a strong and loving woman, who will always love Sherlock in one way or another. This is just one scenario of a way she might deal with that.





	

I’d always thought it would be hard to leave, but I haven’t looked back, not once. I guess I was waiting for him to say it. “I love you.” My mind knew for a long time who he loved. I knew before Sherlock did, I think. Before John’s wedding. That’s why Tom, of course. I knew it eons before John did. That goes without saying, since everybody on God’s green earth knew before John Watson. I would never say this to a living soul, but John’s really a bit of an idiot, isn’t he? 

I won’t say I’m a bit of an idiot, too, since my mind sussed it out before either of them. The heart’s a different organ entirely, though. I guess my heart was waiting. For something or other. 

“I love you.” It was nice to hear him say it, but I knew exactly what it meant even if I didn’t understand what was going on at the time. He really does love me. He cares for me. I’m part of his life, and he didn’t want me to be blown to bloody bits. He explained it all later, of course. Came to my flat looking like a strange cross between a guilty choirboy, a barely reformed junkie (much too thin and eyes still a bit jumpy), and a stand-in for Colin Firth in _Pride and Prejudice_. Tight black jeans (new?), no coat, white shirt, open collar, scarf flying. Didn’t bother to tell him the outfit wasn’t going to help the conversation as far as I was concerned. Damn him. Really. 

He apologized very sweetly. Explained about the bloody bits. Told me that he hated hurting me, that he really did love me, but not *that* way. He actually said, “That way.” Then, “You know it’s John. At least I thought you knew. It’s always been. Hopeless of course.” They are both idiots. I sighed. He looked up from the cold cup of tea he had been turning around and around and mumbling into. He looked down and turned it around yet again. 

“He’ll come around,” I said. 

“He’s not gay,” he said. 

“Who the fucking hell cares, Sherlock?” I said. Perhaps yelled. Perhaps. In fact, almost certainly. “You are the person he wants to be with. He has never really wanted to be with anyone else. Not the late-lamented Mary Watson, for starters.” 

He looked shocked. He’s really so much sweeter than I am. He opened his mouth to protest, to defend Mary. The woman who tried to kill him. Yes, kill. I saw the wound, and I saw the hospital records. 

“Don’t bother. Drink your tea.” 

“It’s cold." 

“And whose fault is that? Eat your biscuits. Want some Jameson’s instead?” 

So we got slightly drunk. Or a lot drunk. He’s actually much more fun when he’s singing Irish ballads. He has quite a lovely voice. It was fun even though all the songs were about lost love and death and suffering. 

The next time I saw him was a reprise of Cake Day, the day John and I took him out to celebrate his birthday. We had all enjoyed it, so we had taken to meeting up for cake every so often. This day Sherlock was unusually quiet. He still seemed a bit sad, even though Baker Street was habitable again and he was working cases for Lestrade. It was so sad about his sister, but we all tried to keep him busy, keep his spirits up. I saved the best bodies for him. The cake was lovely. John was casting speculative glances at Sherlock, and his eyes were soft. He had a little secret smile on his face. Finally, I thought. Maybe John Watson had gotten a clue somehow. I knew exactly where this would go. John and Rosie would move back to Baker Street, John and Sherlock would continue to be idiots for a bit, then someone would confess their undying love. Not sure who, but my bet’s on Sherlock. I was good practice for saying, “I love you,” after all. Then happily ever after, and baby makes three. 

I smiled a bit sadly myself whilst I finished my raspberry sponge with ricotta and cream filling. I was truly happy for them and for Rosie. We walked back to Baker Street. Sherlock had offered to break out some McCallan and make tea. We got all the way to the door. I stopped. I thought about Sherlock singing Irish ballads to me. Just to me. His voice was low and sweet, like a dark stream, like a lullaby. 

“You know,” I said, “I think I’ll head home. It’s getting toward Toby’s dinner time.” 

John looked at me, that soft smile on his face. He licked his lips. He touched Sherlock’s arm. Sherlock cocked his head at me. I smiled, encouragingly I hope, trying to telegraph, “Don’t worry so much about John’s sexuality. Just go with this. Whatever this is.” 

John opened the door, herded Sherlock in. The door closed. I stood looking at it for a moment. I put my hand on the brass knocker, then traced the numbers with my index finger one last time. 

When I got home, I fed Toby. I called Bart’s, resigned my job. There was a squawk of course. No notice, all that. I called Mike Stamford and told him to find me a job, preferably a decent one, anywhere not England. He didn’t ask why, but I’m sure he didn’t need to. I called in a favor, and got a friend to come and pick up Toby to stay for an indefinite period. Julie’s a really good friend. Packed a bag, swung by the bank for cash, and went to Heathrow. 

I’m writing this on my terrace in Castelmola. The view is amazing. Mountains and ocean going on forever. Why Sicily? I had heard the food is great, it’s not covered over with tourists, and I think my great-grandmother Lucia was from somewhere near Taormino. I’ve been here nearly a month, and I’ll have to leave soon. Mike found me a great job. I will be head pathologist at St. Paul’s in Vancouver. Toby is on his way to Vancouver soon. He has his own ticket and everything. Julie is going to bring him and help me get settled. The St. Paul’s docs interviewed me from my terrace on Skype, looked at my publications, and hired me the same day. 

I thought it would be hard to leave England, but I haven’t looked back, not once. I haven’t written, I haven’t called. I haven’t answered his texts. The pictures of Rosie are darling. The pictures of Rosie and Sherlock are…. Lovely? Heartbreaking? Sweet? All of that. I needed for him to tell me he loved me, even if it wasn’t in the way my heart wanted. I needed to tell him that I loved him, even if we both knew what it meant. It was like lancing a boil. Now I’m free. I’m looking out over the mountains, over the ocean, over the calm blue expanse that leads, one way or another, to Vancouver. I suppose you could say that the same ocean leads to Baker Street as well. I won’t go back there. Not even once.

**Author's Note:**

> from a prompt on Tumblr - wondrousprompts  
> “I’d always thought it would be hard to leave, but I haven’t looked back, not once.”


End file.
